my sweetest downfall
by elossa
Summary: you'll always come dancing back to each other in the end. / the unwritten saga of jerome clarke and amber millington through the ages / jeromexamber / rated t for reasons: warnings inside / au / twoshot
1. Chapter 1

**********summary:** you'll always come dancing back to each other in the end.******  
pairings/ships:** mainly jamber friendship/enemies/romance; ghosts of many, many ships  
**setting:** au, as in no sibuna/mystery/cups/masks. most of the things that have occurred in the show will happen here, such as the ball at the end of season one, the ping pong tournament, and so on, but a year earlier.  
**ratings & warnings:** very highly on the t ladder for drugs & alcohol, cursing, eventually heavily implied smut  
**songs:** _old money_ by lana del rey, _bloodstream_ by ed sheeran, _samson_ by regina spektor, _keep breathing_ by ingrid michaelson, _rubber ring_ by the smiths  
**notes:** this has been a plot bunny inspired by certain things. (if we're friends, you can probably tell what they are.) switches between second-person perspectives: odd numbers are always jerome, even numbers amber. also, i actually have a multi-chapter planned out so yay!

**please leave a review, or a fave - any indication you've read this! whether you liked it or not - i just want this to be read.**

* * *

**_i._**

"But I don't _want_ to go, Daddy!"

You're on the eighth stair from the bottom when you see her. Amber hair. Overpriced coat. Absolutely hysterical.

(You forget that you're eight and not eighteen.)

Your eyes linger on her little frame as her father scoops her up into his arms and wraps his arm around her, hushing and whispering and saying that's she's going to be alright and that he'll come back soon to visit, okay?

Oceans turn to permafrost. You know he's lying.

But you don't know whether to tell her, because she's squealing and her eyes slowly flutter shut. You can hear her chorus of 'I love you's, faint as they are. Bile rises as patience overflows; the sight is too cute for the likes of you.

Maybe it was because you've never had your own soppy farewell, and you're thankful.

(Your mother dropped off five-year-old you with this sorry-not-sorry look in her eyes, and every time you flicker on that vision you feel like setting fire to yourself.)

When her father's gone, the blonde sits on the floor and hugs her knees to her chest. A figment of what Trudy calls pity stirs in your chest. You feel some odd need to comfort her and tell her that maybe he will come to visit during Christmas or Easter.

But you don't, because you don't tell lies.

(One day, you'll discover that you're awfully good at telling them.)

You sit next to her because it was a good thing to do and for some reason you feel like you're starting to _care._ She seems nice: a little chubby if you had to be frank, but not mean. School starts in a week and you could use some company now. Even the bad kind.

Her eyes meet yours, and she tries to flash a smile in your direction. You smile back. She extends her hand for you to shake, but you're almost too distracted by her tear-stained face and her slanted eyes to. When you shake hands, you introduce yourself. "Jerome."

She attempts another smile, and this one is real. "Amber."

You laugh; how fitting.

* * *

**_ii._**

"Jerome, you idiot!"

At ten, you can say you've met the worst guy in any given history, legend or folklore. It was a miracle that you make it through the day without murdering him, because he makes it a duty to mix things up 'by accident' or insult you. He also yells that you have cooties though you're sure they're not even real.

The one time you kick him in the groin, you're stuck in Victor's office for several hours as that raven of his stared back at you. (What was its problem_,_ anyway?) Either way, you make sure that you don't get caught next time you whack him in any sensitive area.

Tonight, you're working together on the Smoothie Project Mrs. Murray assigned you at school. Because you're the only two in Eos House that happened to be in the same year group _and_ it happened to be too far from any of the other houses for a visit to be possible, you get paired up with him like you do for any other project.

Most people - yourself included - would think you've made an Amber Millington Guide to Dealing With Jerome Clarke, but you haven't because he's just so _impossible_ to deal with.

"What have I done this time?"

You whack him lightly on the shoulder, "You've mucked up our choice of fruit for tomorrow!"

"Well, I'm _sorry_ if I heard avocado instead of banana."

He rubs at that spot where you hit him, and you almost smirk victoriously but settle for an eye-roll instead. "They don't even sound that similar!"

"They do when they come out of a cootiemouth, Millington."

"You did not just - " You raise your arm, but then decided against hitting him. Trudy had an uncanny instinct for stumbling into one of your little spats. You always get in trouble, even if he started it. Placing your hand on your lap, you grin at him. "You know what? Fine. If our smoothie tastes horrible tomorrow, it'll be all" - you jab his shoulder - _"your"_ - his forehead - "fault." Your index finger lands on his chest. "And if you make the batter for the salt dolls horrible, I'm telling on you."

"Whatever."

Hands trembling, you try to swallow down that helpless, flightless feeling. You're putting your heart and soul into these projects because you've haven't found your calling yet (not school, not ballet, not _anything)_ because just maybe, _maybe_ food what you're meant for. It's certainly helped you through the worst and you hope it pays back what it owes you.

As predicted, he screws everything up _spectacularly_ the next day. Your salt dolls end up mangy (though the dough did taste nice) and your smoothie tastes like horse barf.

You lock the door to your room that night, and you don't even have the courage to cry.

* * *

**_iii._**

You're drafting, and she's _trying_ to write.

If trying amounts to doodling on the side of an unfinished plan, that is.

"Can you _not_?" you hiss. She raises an eyebrow from her sheet of paper, but continues with her drawing. The screech of marker pen against paper pierces you too sharply in your eardrums.

You toss her one of your glares, and she shrugs her shoulders. God, you need new ammo. "Alright. What's up, Millington?"

"I'm bored."

_Child,_ you chide.

(You keep forgetting you're one too.)

"Okay. What am I supposed to do?"

"Tell me what you're writing about for Literacy."

Frowning, you shake your head no. "The whole point of an autobiography is for it to be _personal,_ so why should I tell you anything?"

"Because I'm sure that as much as I want to shove your sorry butt in the cellar, I know you better than Miss Spice."

You sigh. "Fine. Which chapter do you want?"

"All of them," she beams.

"Chapter, Amber. Singular, not plural."

You kind of hate the way her smile never fades even when her hopes are crushed. "Well I want to hear all of them. Since you're being so whiny, then you pick a chapter that's not so personal, but one worth telling."

Exhaling, you flip to the second chapter. "So, my favourite candy's the Curly Wurly - "

She pulls a face, and you can't help laughing at it. "Sounds gross."

"It's literally fifty percent sugar, so you can say it is." You gasp, eyes widening as you realise something; no one has ever called the greatest confection of all time anything so degrading. "Wait, you've never had a Curly Wurly before?"

"No."

"But they're everywhere!"

"Daddy says I shouldn't eat sweets, and he hardly ever gets them for me."

You frown, hoping that you wouldn't regret this but knowing that you would. Dipping a hand into your schoolbag, rummaging through dingy textbooks and silly homework assignments to find that stray packet you've been saving for emergencies.

When she gets it, the first thing she does is not tear the opening apart like an overexcited toddler, but stare blankly at the lettering. Her fingers run over the neon red and the indigo and the deep shade of green you'd always associate with witches' cauldrons. (You don't know why - you just do.) You beckon her to tear the packaging open, and she does with her dainty fingers.

Her expression turns sour as she sights the head of the chocolate braid. "Gross!" she exclaims, "you said it's fifty percent sugar!"

"It is."

"Then why is it chocolate? I thought sugar's meant to be sparkly."

You sigh. She unravels the rest of the package, and she shrieks. "Do you expect me to _eat_ it all?"

Rolling your eyes, you gently split it in the middle. "How thick are you, Amber? Of course not." You plop the entire piece in your mouth, while hers gapes open. Through muffled chewing, you say,"Eat it before it melts and your fingers get sticky."

She shoves the entire thing in her mouth, and tries to chew her way through it all, and though her teeth were hard at work you can see her eyebrows - which were constantly creased - relax a little.

Swallowing, she gives you a grin. "It tastes wonderful!"

* * *

**_iv._**

Everything changed that summer.

You get braces. You pass (no, _ace)_ your SATs. Your dad thanks you for not being a hopeless case like your older sister.

When you go back to school, you sigh in relief because you don't have to share with Lola anymore. You're going to get a new roommate, in a new house, far away from Scumbag Clarke. At least you know enough about your new house to know that Trudy's coming with you, because everyone else's cooking seems like a bummer compared to hers.

The shadow of Anubis House swallows you whole, and you know that you're going to love it here.

(You couldn't be more right.)

* * *

**_v._**

Mara Jaffray is an enigma you want to decode.

Alfie Lewis is your new best friend.

Amber Millington is still your housemate, and for some reason you're okay with that.

* * *

_**vi.**_

It was early December the next time you found yourself alone with him. You tell yourself that it is completely and utterly accidental, and that these things don't just happen.

(You'll learn later on that they do.)

A chill grazes your skin as you found yourself perched on the top of the school playground, both of you facing this puddle that was no larger than your thumb. Standing in the pedestal of said puddle is a frog. Or a toad.

Silence grips you, marks you with this itching desire to say something even though there was nothing to be said. You, like everyone else in this house, are a victim of his pranks which have only gotten worse since he became friends with that Lewis kid. Really, you should be scolding him and calling him those godawful names Patricia does and whacking him on the shoulder like the good old days.

But you don't.

Jerome shoots you a look. "I never knew you liked frogs."

Frowning, you gestured towards the green amphibian. It didn't move. "That's because I don't."

He nods in this particular way and you're not sure if he's analysing in his usual ice-cold manner or if he's just taking it in as an Amber Fun Fact like most people would. You're sure it's the former; Jerome Clarke with his butter-coloured hair and his steely, cobalt gaze did not belong in the category of normal. "I see," he finally says, tone neutral.

That's when he scares you.

Quiet settles, and it's not uncomfortable or awkward like the first. There is nothing but the occasional gust of wind, or your sighs or his thoughts swirling around in yours.

"Do you think we should name it?" you ask. "Well, I have a name, but it's not very creative."

"A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet."

"What?"

"Never mind. So what's the name?"

"Froggy."

He laughs. You flinch, because you're not sure if he's making fun of you or the name or something. Earth and sky collide as his eyes slowly meet yours, because they reminded you of the Spanish skies that you've spent hours looking out at, but never living under. Your eyes? Well, Daddy called it the colour of dirt once.

You step down, rushing back to the house. Mara would be looking for you any moment, and you knew how iffy she gets when she can't get her homework done.

* * *

**_vii._**

There was a party at Hathor House and you didn't want to go.

You really didn't, and that didn't bother you. What bothered you was the suspecting glares that maybe you had a grudge against someone there. (The only one you know is some kid called Giles.) To some people it was inconceivable that on some nights, Jerome Clarke preferred to sit down in the living room and read a book rather than mess up some poor kid's party.

Alfie went, but only because Fabian and Mick goaded him to.

The only face that perturbed your solitude was Amber's, but you weren't the least bit surprised. You heard her sobbing in the girls' bathroom the day after the last party she went to. She looked like she wanted to murder you when you spotted her (well, she always looked like she wanted to put you six feet under, but this was more intense than usual).

She sits on what you and Alfie have penned the loveseat: Patricia and Mick sat there all the time, and everyone knows they've got a thing going on with each other, even Fabian. (That might be because he and Mick are roommates; the boy's oblivious to romance.) You take your head out of Alex Rider's adventures for a moment, addressing her presence with a raised brow.

"Bored, Millington?"

Avoiding your gaze, she shrugs her shoulders.

"You should've gone to the party, you know. It would've been a nice way to make amends."

That earned you a look. "I don't make fancy origami animals, Jerome."

You raise your brows. "Amends means to make up with someone," you explains smoothly. "Say, if you and Mara had a fight over, say, Mick Campbell, to make amends would be to apologise to her. Say sorry and make up and maybe make some daisy chains along the way - "

" - Mara and I do not make daisy chains, or fight over Mick," she asserts.

"I'm surprised you haven't, considering the both of you like him."

Her face whitens, because never has she ever considered Mick as a boyfriend. He's just that kid who served the older football players their drinks, sorted their shin pads and spent unreasonable hours in the gym so he could be like them. You don't know much about the blonde in front of you, but you know pushover probably wasn't in her criteria of boyfriend material.

"I - I - " She stammers, and you smirk. "I - I don't have a crush on Mick, Jerome."

"You're blushing, Millington. Come on, don't lie to me."

"I'm not! I really don't consider Mick as boyfriend material!"

"Then why on earth are you acting so defensive about it?"

"Because if I don't you'll think I like him."

"But you do, don't you?"

"Yes, as a - "

"Ha! There it is!"

Her fingers ball into fists, and you can finally see her fuming. You have the audacity to look scared, and suddenly you are. Instead of punching you until you're black and blue, she just stares at you until the tide comes and spills over her face and onto the ground below.

"I - I _hate_ you, Jerome! You're a screwed up bastard that knows n - nothing!" She stares at you, shaking her head and burying her head in her hands. "S - Someone sh - should teach you a les - son a - about - "

She doesn't finish, because the front door opens to reveal Patricia, Mara and Joy. They see her sobbing, and like the good friends they are, they rush to her side. Mara wraps an arm around her, so does Joy, and Patricia sends you nothing but a death glare. Even with their comforting lies spiraling her body, you can hear her shrieks deep into the night and past the witching hour. Not even Victor's threats could send her to sleep.

You end up being ostracised for the rest of the month by everyone - even Alfie - and you can't lie your way out of not caring.

* * *

_**viii.**_

You fall asleep that night - and every night since - thinking of his golden hair and his ocean eyes, his laughter and his swords, and you know you're fucked.

(It's the first of many times you use that word.)

* * *

_**ix.**_

You remember the amount of grief you put your mother into that summer; your uniform lasted one year as opposed to two, some of your things went mysteriously missing and your voice keeps cracking for some reason.

Your parents call it puberty; you call it hell.

Going back to school that autumn, the brown leaves reek of death and everyone seemed like hyperactive five-year-olds. Anubis House feels like a godforsaken curse on your shoulder and you want to move out and live on your own in the school corridor.

(This is what Mara would refer to as _teenage angst.)_

Waltzing into Anubis House with some intention of raining into everyone else's parades, you don't even manage to offend someone with your presence before you spot her.

At least, you _think_ it's her.

Her hair isn't the dirty blonde you've learned and loved; it's shiny enough to blind a car in the dead of night. She's also lost a significant amount of puppy fat, but you're glad that some still stick to her cheeks because she wouldn't be her if it didn't. Bemused, you swear there's more pink on her than there is in the rest of the world combined.

"Amber?" you croak, and you're sure growing up has nothing to do with it.

She turns to face you after managing to enjoy an easygoing chat. Her eyes rest on yours, and when she would usually jerk them away, she did not this time. In fact, if it wasn't for her newly-whitened smile you'd say that she was silently interrogating you.

"Jerome!" she squeals, wrapping her arms around you. (Okay, since when was Amber this touchy-feely?) You do the same to her, even if somewhat reluctantly. "How are you?"

You reply monosyllabically to all the questions she threw at you, partly scared of the response you'll get from her. Yes, she seemed a little annoyed, but nothing more. It didn't take long for her to get bored with you, and she sashays up into her room, Mara and Mick and Joy a little bewildered but more than amazed by this new woman that had taken tiny, timid Amber hostage in her cellar and replaced her with this.

Alfie didn't make you feel any better. "You've got to admit, Jerome, she's smokin' hot."

"Save it for the rest, will you?" you utter bitterly, slowly watching the girl you've hated since you were eight slowly become _the_ Amber Millington, most popular girl in Key Stage Three.

* * *

**_x._**

One of your new favourite things was vampire movies, TV shows, the works. As long as they contained bloodsucking beauties (ie. Edward Cullen), you were _so_ up for it.

You had been in Patricia and Joy's room watching Twilight when the door creaks open. Both you and Joy scream like banshees, and that made Patricia scrunch her face and bury it in a pillow. You glower at the intruder, who was leaning against the door. Joy pauses the movie and huddles next to the redhead.

"Why the glare, Ambs?" he probes, smirking in your direction. You stand up from your place and cross your arms. "You do know our History poster is due tomorrow, right?"

You frown. "Can't you do it?"

"No, because it's _our_ poster. That means you're going to have to _help."_

The Terrible Twins pass you a look of sympathy, and you leave the room with Jerome. Skipping down the stairs and turning the right to his room, you sigh as he places an empty sheet of A3 paper down in front of you.

"Do you know anything about Greek Mythology?" he questions, passing you a sheet of paper.

You nod, and this was one of the little truths no one expects of you. Ever since you half-read that Percy Jackson book in Year Six, you knew loads and loads and loads about the Ancient Greeks. You couldn't boast to having an eidetic memory, but you liked the book so much you happened to remember a large chunk of it.

Jerome passes you a pen and paper, and you slowly begin to write it down. _Zuz is the Father of Gods and..._

"What's Zuz?" he asks, staring at the sentence.

"The guy with the lightning bolts," you reply, grinning. "He's usually referred in mythology to as the Father of Gods and Men."

"That's not how you spell it," he counters.

"Zuz!" you exclaim, "can't you hear the z at the end?"

"It's an s, Amber. Believe me."

"How would you know?"

He taps at his computer, his fingers tracing his mouse pad and smirking when he saw something on the screen. "Because I found it!"

Turning the laptop screen for you, he shoves his stupid, strangely cute - the moment you consider that, your face turns sour - victory grin in your face. Shaking your head, you admit involuntary defeat. "Okay, fine, it's Zeus. Z. E. U. S. But if you're so smart, why don't you do it on your own? I can go back upstairs and watch my fantabulous movie with - "

"No!" he blurted, and the fact that is managed to shatter my eardrums shocked the both of you, more him than you from the looks of it.

"Why?" you ask, realising that you're going to leave yourself at sixes and sevens. "Can't you get Fabian to do it like you usually do?"

He seems almost deflated that you asked. "Mrs. Andrews knows the difference between my handwriting and his. She threatened to suspend me if he did any of my homework again."

Nodding, you're still perplexed. "And I come into this... how?"

"It's still our project," he picks up a pen, "and I'll do all the writing and you can do the... the glittery bits."

Alfie doesn't have the heart to tell you the next morning that you fell asleep next to one another, because when you wake up Jerome's already gone.

* * *

_**xi.**_

The next year, Mick stopped being a complete straw man and became an official part of the football team. He isn't a renowned player - just a reserve - but that makes him just as cool as Amber, and that made them fit to come to the parties the older years had.

You sneak behind them one night, their hands intertwined and wearing matching blues and greens. To most people, this was a no-brainer: same peach skin, same platinum blonde hair and one clueless footballer paired with the Queen of Fancy Dressing would obviously lead to Amber picking out his clothes for him, because she was - cue the irony - a good sport.

You've never seen her so helpful before.

(But you're forgetting the fact that she kind of, pretty much hates you.)

To your shock, there is no bouncer checking if your name against a list of guests; there are more people in there than you can remember seeing in school. There are people snogging other people - something tells you they barely know each other - and Sixth Formers are hiding in the bushes lighting fags and laughing about nothing in particular.

Come to think of it, do they even contain nicotine?

You've heard of worse, and you're wondering how this is happening in your backyard. Then you remember that your housemates are here and they could be in complete and utter -

Close to another set of bushes, Amber and Mick laugh with a bunch of people you know are Year Tens. They have glasses in their hands both containing liquids that remind you of cider. Amber laughs, throwing her head back, and Mick wraps an arm around her waist. "Careful, Ambs," he whispers, taking a sip of the stuff, "this shit is pretty strong."

"Is it?" she questions, and she takes a sip. "Oooh, it feels like fire. There's fire in my body, Mick!" She laughs, leaning into him and placing her head on his shoulder. "That was... that was nice." Jerking back up, she finishes her shot and slams it into someone else's hand. They don't seem to be withering in pain, like normal people usually would. Perhaps they couldn't feel it. "There! I finished off your bloody Johnny Walker's. Now can we have some Mary Jane?"

_Mary what?_ Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to walk out of the bush and feign tripping on nothing in particular. This garners some of Amber's attention, and when she sees you she squeals.

"Jeroooome! What are you doing out here?" she laughs, offering a hand. You take it - completely dismissing her question - but in turn she falls to the ground, her legs splayed out. Though she's almost cackling, Mick glares at you. You try not to notice but it's difficult when it's digging into your skull. Gently, you pull her back up so she's standing on both feet, somewhat stable. (Why isn't she trying to put her shoes back on? She never goes anywhere barefoot.) "Someone get him a shot! A shot of anything! He can have a smoke too if he wants."

Your eyes widen and when you see someone rolling up grass, that's when you realise what she's on about.

"Amber," you hiss, "this is a horrible, _horrible_ idea."

"But it's fun!" she counters, and suddenly you notice the way she twirls rapidly in the wind. "Maybe we can both have some you-know-whatsies and we can have sparklers and we can write our names in the middle of the night sky - "

Someone gives you a shot. You stare at it, completely bewildered and completely lost. "Don't look so stupid, Jerome, have a shot!" she exclaims.

"Yeah, mate," Mick concurs, "have a shot. Have as many as you like." He smiles, this time brightly, and you're not sure if he's trying to fuck with you or not. "The night's ours, and the night is young! We have to make your first night out something to remember."

You're not sure how, but the night turns into a whirlwind of images. First, you were taking shots with Mick and a couple of the other guys. At first they tasted like shit, but someone whipped up a couple of cocktails and those tasted much better.

You then had a taste of what Amber called Mary Jane which made you feel really fucking heavy once it began to kick in, but most of the time was spent hearing the words _'For fuck's sake, Jerome, you ain't doing it right.' _They did have a point; you were coughing and spluttering for the first couple of smokes. It takes several minutes of calming you down enough to just inhale, breathe, let the stuff simmer in your lungs enough to let it kick in.

When it does, you feel like you're the king of the universe. You search for a table or a garbage bin because you feel like climbing something, but you can't find any, so you just curse and curse until you forget how to speak. Your pupils widen and you start laughing and you're not sure why, but you do. Everything moves so slowly and everything's so blurry and you swear everyone's voices sound different. You and Mick take turns lifting Amber into the air and spinning, spinning her around until she falls on top of you and claps like a child, wanting to go again.

"This is fun!" she giggles, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. "We should do this again some time."

You don't blush, because you're far too confused and you're ninety percent sure that she thought you were Mick. Besides, you do have fun the next time: you just make sure she's not involved.

* * *

_**xii.**_

"Alfie! Jerome! You cannot just take my Versace perfume _for science_ and not expect me not to worry about it!"

Always one for dramatic entrances, you storm into their room expecting them to stare. You did not expect a one-man audience fiddling with what seems to be a bunch of hair extensions. Blue, shoulder-length hair extensions, by the look of them.

"Where's Alfie?" you ask, folding your arms. There are other, more pertinent questions you want to ask, but you know that you have to start off slow.

"He's not here," he replies solemnly, his eyes skimming over yours. Usually, you welcome such quiet gestures, but you're fuming and you need to take it out on someone. And if you're going to feel any better you're going to need them to react, which he isn't helping with.

"What on earth are you so chipper about?" you deadpan, flopping down next to him on his bed. To your surprise, he doesn't shoo you away or tell you to fuck off. By the way that he was patting the space next to him, he looks like he actually wants to talk to you.

You grin as you shuffle your body next to his.

"Amber, I hope I don't regret this," he sighs, "but how do you subtly, not subtly let someone know you like them?"

Staring at him like a fish, you can't believe he just asked you that question. You have seen him snog a couple of girls in your nights out, and some of the girls - including one very, very high Willow Jenks - have admitted to having large crushes on him. If you weren't dating the biggest girl afficionado in school (Mick, _duh),_ you might say that Jerome would be the hottest guy in school.

And here he was, asking you about how to deal with a girl.

"If you're going to laugh, Millington, you might as well leave," he says hotly, and though you wish you won't you laugh anyway.

He raises a brow, and then your laughter fades into oblivion. "Okay, fine," you resign, "talk to me."

Laughing, he shakes his head. "You made it pretty clear that you think it's ridiculous that Jerome Manwhore Clarke is asking you for advice, and I'm not setting myself up for even more ridicule. I have to admit that you reacted way better than I expected you to, but worse than Alfie - "

" - you told Alfie before me?"

"He _is_ my best friend."

"A best friend who knows nothing about dating!"

"You're not helping, Ambs."

You sigh, rolling over so that your stomach's facing down. "You want my help, I'm going to have to know a couple of things about this girl."

"Don't play dumb. There's only one girl in school that wears blue hair extensions."

He hands them over to you, and you jerk away because as much as you love your own hair, holding someone else's is gross. You swipe them away from you as they lay in a tangled heap on the mattress, but once that's done you look at him and grin. _Of course it's Patricia,_ you think, because with the exception of you she's the only girl in the house who hasn't considered him romantically yet.

You give him advice, and he follows. And though you can't say you didn't expect the gunfire which happens, it amuses you.

(For all the wrong reasons, of course.)

* * *

_**xiii.**_

"I'm Nina, and I'm American!"

When Nina comes in Year Ten, you, Alfie and Patricia plot to scare the living wits out of her because hey, she does seem impressionable. Trixie pours water on her, and Nina booby trapped her own room. You lock her up in the attic, she somehow enlists Amber's help to lock all three of you in the cellar. After a while, the fun of the situation begins to wear off as Mick breaks up with Amber to date _Mara_ and the aftermath is much more explosive than Nina versus Patricia.

You're mad, and Amber's mad. You two could fake date - because you're still the two most gorgeous people in Anubis House - to get the ball rolling but every time you try to propose the idea she gives you this look and swiftly glosses you over, Nina on her tail.

You won't admit this verbally to anyone who asks, but you're glad Nina came. You could never get Mara on her own what with Amber lounging in their (former) room half the time, and nothing could separate those two. Now that they were separate entities, she seems a little more devilish, a little more badass, a little more wild: you find this out when you have shots of vodka and lime one Saturday night while Mick was trying out for a scholarship. You now have a decent reason to hate Mick Campbell other than 'he's a total jackass', because you think you have a crush on the girl with the raven curls, the sing-song voice, the wide-eyed curiosity evaded by most.

But one of the best reasons had nothing to do with Mara Jaffray.

When Amber and Nina are paired together for a Literature assignment, you sneak a look out of the corner of your eye every few seconds as Alfie jabbered on about aliens in Roswell. They're talking, as in Amber was, in her own Amberish way, arguing about the conno-whatsits of some sentence or some thought, and Nina was firing arguments right back at her. You never saw that with Amber and Mara; it was mostly one-sided work. With the both of them, they worked like a well-oiled machine, as clichéd as that statement sounds. It also happens to be the only one that fits.

You remember that one time she rambled on to you about how her dad was threatening to cut her allowance because her grades were going down the pan. That must've been a million years ago (even if it was actually only one) because you remember the first time she comes squealing in the kitchen, wrapping poor Nina in her arms and wondering how she manages to get an A star on her coursework. She even agrees to sit next to Alfie for dinner, and soon it became a permanent fixture.

Not only does she appear more intelligent, slightly more interested in classes (because no one can keep their eyes open in Science) and overall a better person, you notice how kind she becomes. She ensures that the two lovebirds - ie. Fabian and Nina - have some alone time when she never let Mara have any, she visits Alfie in the hospital when he has a panic attack, trying not to terrify him as best as she could, and you find her actually listening to Nina's stories. This is not the Amber everyone knows, but you've always known her to be like this and for some reason that makes you proud of her.

The next time you manage to speak to her is when she tries to become Student Representative when Mara kind of, sort of turns on you, and she beams when you're her campaign manager. Both of you attempt to bake cookies in the kitchen (minus Alfie, because of what happened the last time), and they tasted wonderful even without raspberries. You try and make posters of her as she coordinates her own cheerleading routine with some of the girls in the cheerleading club you don't recall the school having.

"I never knew you could tumble," you remark, watching her practice in the school gymnasium.

"You don't know lots of things about me," she replies, hands on hips. After a well-aimed glare, she resumes her acrobatic moves. God knows what got into you, but you're entranced and you spend the rest of lunch hour staring at her choreography, her sing song voice singing out promises that make no sense.

You laugh, knowing that she was, not for the first time, right.

* * *

_**xiv.**_

When Amber and Mara finally made up, the storm that had plagued the house for months finally receded. Mara and Mick were finally at peace, and Amfie - as you have dubbed it - finally had a chance. To celebrate the end of the beginning, the both of you decide to have an end of term prom. Most of the preparations went okay.

(Well, there was that whole King Tut debacle which kind of broke your heart, but when you tell Alfie you weren't disappointed that he's the man behind the mask, you meant it.)

Fabian and Nina are Prom King and Queen, of course, and you dance with Alfie for the longest time. He isn't clumsy like Mick, but he isn't completely graceful. Once, you nearly fall but he catches you by your waist and swoops you back up until your face is inches from his. If you're a different kind of girl you'd kiss him there and then, but you also happen to be _Amber Millington_ and you happen to have _standards_ so you giggle in his face and take his hand, taking him with you.

The slow dance portion of the dance is over, and it's time to hit it out with the other groups. You dance with pretty much with everyone from Anubis House - even Mick, though you wish you didn't wear open-toed shoes - and you're kind of surprised at how good Fabian was. You owe it to the clandestine dance regime you forced on Mick; even if Nina didn't seem like the high-maintenance type of girl she doesn't seem to appreciate Fabian's semi-clumsiness when it comes at the worst of times.

Eventually, your dread resurfaces as it is your turn to dance with the infamous Jerome. You hear that he's here with Patricia, which is odd; if he wanted to make Mara jealous he could have taken someone else who he barely knew. At least they looked like they're having a good time, which is the entire point of this event.

"The best friend and the girlfriend, dancing together on Prom Night," he whispers, extending his arm, "Alfie should really be more careful."

"Alfie and I aren't dating," you protest, taking it by its phalanges and twirling beneath it. Exhaling, you remember exactly why you dreaded this small, but apparently inevitable formality.

He arches a brow. "I know you, Millington," he mumbles, intertwining his hand with yours, "you don't just take someone to something as public as a prom and then just not date them."

Your face blanches, and your face darts close to his. "We're not dating," you jeer through grit teeth. "Yet."

The next few minutes pass by in silence, and neither of you dare to switch partners. Fabian tries to approach you, but he jerks away once he saw the stern faces and the vigilant looks you gave one another. The music swamps you in this game of grace and glory: he is the only one in school that matches you spin for spin, hand for hand, warm touch for warm touch. You remember, for some stark, stupid reason, that he took ballet classes as a kid and that accounted for his strange, pleasant poise.

Eventually you can't stand the silence anymore. So you speak.

"Jerome?" you ask, your voice coming out more demure than it should.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think that if you're not such a jackass and I wasn't such a drama queen - "

" - the world'll blow up before that happens - "

" - for fuck's sake, can you let me finish?"

"Fine."

You close your eyes, your hand - which is supposed to be anywhere but here - closing on his. "Right, as I was saying, do you think that if you weren't a jackass and I wasn't a princess, we'd have a chance?"

"Do you want me to be honest?" he questions, and you read him well enough to realise that he is - rare as the incidence is - genuine.

You answer flippantly anyway. "... _duh."_

He clasps your hands together. "Yes."

As he utters that word, Alfie asks you for the last dance.


	2. Chapter 2

**********summary:** you'll always come dancing back to each other in the end.******  
pairings/ships:** mainly jamber friendship/enemies/romance; ghosts of fabina, peddie, jara, joyfie  
**setting:** as last chapter, with the addition of season three never happening  
**ratings & warnings:** very highly on the t ladder for drugs & alcohol, cursing, eventually heavily implied smut  
**songs:** i listed/used a couple in this chapter - hinted by the italics - so use those. (in addition, i recommend _into the past_ by nero for chapter xxi. i didn't use it only because it wasn't released yet during said chapter.)  
**notes:** switches between second-person perspectives: odd numbers are always jerome, even numbers amber. i also had too much fun writing this, as this helped with my zapped muse for nox aeterna. i'm _very_ sorry about chapter xvix. why? you'll have to read to find out.

**please leave a review, or a fave - any indication you've read this! whether you liked it or not - i just want this to be read.**

* * *

**_xv._**

"Logically, we should be dating."

You remember it as the words Amber said to you when you win the ping pong tournament. Come to think of it, the win felt like kicking a wounded puppy; it wasn't because you were good - that was mostly Amber. It was because your opponents were cheating, and that demanded a rematch.

So she saunters into the student lounge the next day with a pleased expression on her face. You grin right at her, and she starts nattering on about how you two would make a decent power couple. Alfie's here too, and you wonder how he seems visibly blasé about the whole thing. It could be because their relationship fizzled as fast as it blossomed, but you're not going to make any assumptions.

Then she says those words, and you start repeating the words _Jerome and Amber_ and _Amber and Jerome_ over and over in your head.

You might pull a face at her, but really you don't think it's such a bad idea.

* * *

_**xvi.**_

"Jerome?"

"Not now, Alfie."

"It's me, Amber."

Footsteps approach the door, and you encounter his ocean eyes once more. "What?"

"Mick sent me - "

" - save me the talk, Millington."

"For fuck's sake, I only want a minute. He _is_ my best friend."

"That actually makes me want to talk to you less."

He tries to slam the door in your face, but he forgets that you're just as strong as he is. You hold the doorknob as it falls into your palm, arching your brows and thinning your lips. With a resigned sigh, he beckons you inside. Once you settle yourself on top of Alfie's bed, you make sure that your eyes don't disconnect from his.

For a while, you forget where sky ended and earth began.

"I'm not going to scold you, Jerome, because you two have been close this year and you've liked her to some extent since... Year Seven, I suppose." You shrug your shoulder, whipping your nail file from your pocket. You barely notice the shocked expression on his face.

"How could you figure that - "

"I can read you like a book," you say, your tone level. "Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'm not going to scold you. I'm not even going to be mad at you because I can say your heart is hers as much as her heart is yours. What I do suggest is to give it time. She's going to have to come to you. It's going to be a torturous wait because she's never sure of anything concerning the heart, let alone you."

"You're saying - "

"She's not used to difficult, Jerome. Compared to you, Mick is an open book. You forget that I'm one of the few people here that know about your past before the shit with your dad happened." (The fact that he did - forget, you mean - gives you an odd feeling in your stomach. Sadness, maybe?) "I know you two will be great together. You just..."

"Need to be patient."

"Exactly."

He gives you a firm look, but it doesn't strike you as negative. You know that if it was from the bottom of his shrivelled up heart, Jerome can't express it the way you would, so you flash him your thousand-watt smile before bouncing out the room.

And now, to get Fabina alone in a room together...

* * *

_**xvii.**_

To this day, you would say that Amber called you during results day.

The truth is, _you_ called _her._

(You've wasted an hour with Alfie, two with Mara who's _studying_ now, and there is just so much time to kill before you go out tonight.)

She picks up on the first ring, and by the faded sound of her voice she was more than surprised that you, out of all people called her. "If you want me to hang up," you say, "you can just say so."

"No!" she exclaims, "no, stay. Talk to me!" You can imagine her rolling on her stomach on her four-poster bed. "Daddy won't let me go shopping today, and I think he wants to limit my credit allowance again. He's going to add textbooks into my budget!"

(She pulls a face at this point; you don't know how you know, but you do.)

"You need to learn how to control your spending anyway," you counter, brushing the matter over. You check your clock. "Amber!"

"Hmm?"

"Log on to your laptop."

"Already am. Why?"

"You forgot, haven't you?"

"Forgot what?"

"It's results day!"

Pause. You put her on speaker. "Oh."

"Aren't you excited? Or scared?"

"I - I suppose so."

"Results are out already. Come on! Let's log in. See them together."

"Sure."

You can hear the sluggish typing on the other side of the phone. There was a silence as you both scan your results. You smirk as your eyes fell upon yours.

"Who wants to go first?" you ask.

"I don't, so you."

You clear your throat, and she snickers from the other end. "Maths, B. Science, B. English, A. French, C. World Literature, A. History, A."

She grins. "Congratulations. Now, my turn?"

"Yeah."

"Maths, A. Science, A. English, A _star._ French, A. World Literature, A. History... B."

She later tacks on, when you don't respond, "I'm not boasting, because that's what I actually got."

"I'm not surprised."

You can sense her wide-eyed shock when you tell her that. "You're not?"

"If I'm so difficult to get, then so are you. And you forget that I knew you before you started acting like a total drama queen." (You're not surprised she did, but it doesn't hurt you any less.)

Clearing her throat, she adds, "Alfie and I are back together. Again."

"Oh, are you?"

"Yeah. Ask him."

"He didn't mention it."

She snorts. "Okay, whatever. I said yes literally five minutes before you called. But now that I passed my exams, do you think that's a sound reason to ask Daddy to buy me a new phone?"

* * *

_**xviii.**_

"Oh boo," you frown. Your schedule was at the foot of Alfie's bed. "I only share one class with you and it's Business! That's like six hours out of God knows how many, and Daddy expects me to get all As for my A Levels just because I passed my GCSEs. How can you even pass a class if you can't even stay awake in them?"

"Amber."

"Nina and I only have History together, I don't have any classes with Mara or Fabian so I can't cheat off them, Eddie and Patricia refuse to tell me what they took because they broke up _again,_ and Joy only has Art with me and you can't really do much about that, now can you?"

_"Amber."_

"I'm never going to pass and I'm never going to go to fashion school so I'll have to learn how to apply through bloody UCAS."

"Amber! Calm down. Six hours together is better than none," Alfie reminds you, kissing the top of your forehead. He rubs your shoulder as you lean into his, nestling your head atop it. "Cheer up! At least we can still be business partners when we grow up."

"Because designing outfits for alien hunters is clearly a profitable venture," you deadpan, and he gives you a confused look. "What?"

"I was thinking making alien costumes for my magic shop, but that works too."

You throw your head back as you laugh, narrowly missing the headboard. Alfie presses you towards him, and he laughs too. "You make me laugh," you whisper, grinning.

"You make me laugh too," he sighs, closing the distance between you. It had been nearly two months since you tasted his lips, and you can't help but open up to him like a rose in a hothouse.

His hand is on your hip when you hear the door unlock.

"You two getting it on?" Jerome smirks. You refuse to let go of your boyfriend, your fingers interlocking and gripping him like a vice. The blond doesn't seem daunted by your glare. "Really, if you want to fool around in this house, it should be in her room, considering there are strange noises down the hall and I'm sure it's Fabian and Nina."

Daintily pushing Alfie away from you, you put your hands on your hips. Crossing your arms over your chest, your eyes are fixed on the six-foot tall boy before you. "Have you not heard of knocking?"

"It was quiet in here," he objects. "I assumed that you and Alfie went on an evening picnic or something."

"Picnics are so Year Eleven," you say dismissively, standing on your toes. "Don't you have a girlfriend to snog? That way I can snog my boyfriend and everyone's happy."

Jerome pouts, makes his thinking face, and gives her a triumphant nod. "Okay, sounds like a plan."

You beam as he slides out the door, but when you see his face peeking through door with his trademark again, your smile slips into an expression of confusion.

"See you in Lit."

You remember that Miss Valentine saying this morning that there were only two students in that class, and you hope he's joking.

(Spoiler alert: He isn't.)

* * *

**_xvix._**

The fact that Amber's in your room trying to comfort you _again_ kind of sucks.

This time, you insist on smoking some Mary Jane in front of her, and to your surprise she doesn't ask for some. She says it's for celibacy reasons or something, and you resist the urge to laugh because she confused it with sober. At least it was confusion over sibilance, as Miss Andrews would've pointed out. The old woman would've bawled at the joke.

"You know, if you don't talk to anyone about how you feel about Mara, you're going to destroy yourself internally, right?" she warns. "Not like I haven't done it before with Mick, mostly because the only person who understood a thing I was talking about happened to be dating him - "

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make me think of her."

"I'm sorry, but that's the mindset you're going to have to avoid."

You pouts in her direction, and she's not the least bit fazed. She knows you're heartbroken and her sardonic attitude is the last thing you want right now, but you know that it's what you need. (How the hell do you know each other like this?) Closing your eyes, she shuffles closer to you. "The best thing to do is to let it out. Be jealous, be angry. Find some way of letting it out, like writing poetry. That pretend to be over shit doesn't work no matter what Victoria Beckham says, and you can't hide matters of the heart from everyone."

"How would you know that?"

"We both know how I know that."

Giving you a wry smile, he nods. "Okay, you want me to act normal. Then tell me."

You raise a brow. "Tell you what?"

"What you think of me and Mara."

Scoffing, you shake your head as you take a drag. "It doesn't work like that, Jerome."

Your eyes widen and your pout is emphasised, and she rolls her eyes. "I honestly thought Marome was going to last forever. You're like the" - she's counting something with her fingers - "echo couple of Anubis House after Amfie, Fabina and Peddie." You're actually giggling. "This isn't funny, Jerome! Do you even know how cute the two of you were together? I even made a scrapbook which I could never finish because _someone's_ roommate kept pestering me."

"Enough with the sugar, Millington. I want to hear the flaws."

"Huh?"

"Everyone knows that I love her and she loves me back. So what's our problem?"

"Uh, a crazy long honeymoon period?"

"You're killing me here."

"That is your only flaw: your relationship is like... like a honeymoon! Like, all that stuff with your dad was so dramatic and angsty like a sweaty Top Model marathon or trying to design a whole collection in a week in time for Paris Fashion Week. When you two actually got together it was like, I don't know, Paris Fashion Week."

"I'm not getting it."

"When it's happening it's beautiful and it's like, Brangelina. Everyone's talking. When it's over, everyone's like, 'They were so not going to work out anyway. I mean, they're _so_ different.' Well, you both screwed Mick up in the head pretty bad, so I personally don't agree with that."

You nod, shaking her hand. "Thanks, Amber."

Taking another joint, she removes it from your hand and puts it in the dustbin. "No more until you're completely and utterly over her," she chides sternly, removing something from her pocket and shoving it on your chest. "Go through this until you feel absolutely nothing for her and laugh at how idiotic you are."

When she leaves, the pain that had clouded your heart that day grows a little lighter. A little.

* * *

_**xx.**_

"Why didn't you tell me you got five As in your GCSEs?"

This is the fifth argument you have with Alfie in the past week, and it was about the same thing. Yes, you forgot to tell him that by passing your exams you mean 'completely acing them', in his words. He's also surprised that you never go to anyone for homework, and the Business test you said you failed happened to be the highest score in class, as Miss Denby had flaunted.

"I didn't tell you because you wouldn't believe me," you say.

"And you didn't tell me that your fashion school happened to be based in America. _America!"_

"I did tell you it was going to be the New York School of Fashion."

"YOU SAID _A_ FASHION SCHOOL!"

"Same thing."

He paces around your room, shaking his head. "Amber, I told you everything! I told you about wanting to apply to East Anglia and I was ready to go to London every other weekend to come see you. I'm ready for a two-hour distance relationship, but _twelve_ hours? Do you know how much I have to save up just for the flight, let alone the hotel?" Slumping to the ground, he buries his head in his hands. "I can't do that."

"I can always Skype you and inbox you on Chum Chatter."

"It's not the same, and relationships in the same country don't always work, let alone long distance. Look at Mara and Mick." He shakes his head. "How the fuck can you be so cool about this?"

"Because one of us has to be."

You're in shock; you don't remember sounding this bitter to anyone but your father, Jerome or Mara. Instead, you stand and place your hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you everything," you mumble, "I know I should have."

"Jerome knows you better than I do. _Jerome!"_ He shakes his head in denial. You raise a brow. "Who do you think told me about your stellar results? I don't care about that, but it makes no sense to me. You two have hated each other since ever, and for some reason he just _gets_ you better than I do. That's pretty shitty for me, considering." His eyes begin to water. "I love you, Ambs."

"I love you too."

Taking your hand off his shoulder, he plays with your fingers. You do the same, thumbs dodging each other. Exhaling, you say, "This is not going to work, is it?"

"No."

"But maybe someday?"

"Maybe."

He hugs you more tightly than you remember, and you grip his body and you're not sure if you want to let go or not. When you let go, there's a little hum in the pit of your stomach. He smiles. You smile.

The door clicks shut as he leaves, but you barely notice it ajar as you retreat to your bed. A guardian angel - or Edward Cullen, maybe - swoops you up in his arms and lets you stain their trousers. Stupidly enough, you realise that you're crying for the sake of crying and not because you're heartbroken. Numbness clouded your heart, yes, but it wasn't emotional pain you were experiencing.

Gazing upwards at your guardian angel, you ask, "It gets better, doesn't it?"

He nods, "If you want it to."

* * *

**_xxi._**

You're not sure how you're the one linking arms with Amber Millington for the graduation prom, but here you are.

Clad in teal, you're turning heads whenever you walk past. You wear an Amber original, because you know that if you try to wear anything otherwise she'll murder you with that glare of hers. She too is wearing something she put together herself from sketch to final product. You bite your tongue as your pride for your companion swells, though you're not sure why she's being so ceremonious when neither of you want to go to graduation with the other: it was a pact made out of necessity.

Joy and Alfie swing past, bickering about their non-matching colour schemes. Fabian and Nina couldn't stop out-you're beautifuling one another. Mick - who came to visit from Australia again - and Mara go together _solely as friends,_ as they both insist, and Patricia and Eddie had already gone some minutes after.

"The romance is making me want to puke glitter," you remark, taking slow, poised steps.

"I'm actually going to agree with you," Amber mutters, sourly glancing in Alfie's direction, "even Fabina's getting on my nerves."

You give her your best cocky laugh, and she rolls her eyes. "Welcome to the single life, Millington. This is the part where pretty much everyone seems to have someone else except you."

As expected, the dance seems to be alcohol and drug free, with teachers in every corner of the room muttering to themselves and sipping punch. The food is mundane: crisps with salsa dip you immediately assume Eddie had something to do with, chips, fish fingers. You feel like you're attending a kitsch eleventh birthday party as opposed to something made for young adults.

"At least they have strobe lights," observes Amber, pointing upwards at the ceiling.

You shake your head, "Doesn't mean they're going to use them."

She drags you to the middle of the floor because you're clogging up the hallway, and even though the music is old and sappy as they usually are in school-organised events, she wants to dance. You know your way around the waltz and the foxtrot, but casual dancing was alien to you. You shimmy your arms, trying not to bump into someone as you moonwalk backwards. Laughing, she pulls you closer to her as the music begins to slow down.

"Getting that déjà vu feeling?" you ask. She doesn't reply as her grin fades, putting her hands around your own.

For some minutes, you descend into the dance routine you had in Year Ten. You swear you can touch the tension between your forms; you dip and spin her about, and she manages to dodge you every time. She spares no glance to the easygoing sway of Fabian and Nina, or Mick and Eddie stuffing each other with food. You know her well enough to know that although she is intent on dancing the night away with you, that's not what she wants. And frankly, this is not what you want either.

When she tries to spin again, you grab her wrist and run through the crowd. She protests and her screaming is more deafening than the other students' bewilderment at your actions and the music, whose pace is beginning to speed up. You rush past your housemates. Mr. Sweet is on your tail, wondering what on earth you're doing and that you should return to school this instant!

Eventually you're past the doors, and then you're ten, twenty, thirty metres away. Eventually the school is out of sight as you make your way to Anubis House. You loosen your grip on her, and she jerks her arm away from you. To your surprise, she gives you a most apprehensive smile.

"Thank you," she says timidly.

"No problem," you reply, "really, it wasn't. I just - I just needed to get out of there."

"I know. So did I." She bobs her head in emphasis. "I can read you like a book, remember?"

Your eyes twinkle, and you return her smile. "Whatever it is you want to get your mind off, I'm sure a few rolls of spliff and some Grey Goose won't fix."

She gapes at you, mouth wide open with glee, "Jerome, how - "

"You don't want to know." He picks the lock, and she swans in. You run after her, making sure the door was tightly shut. By the time you reach her room she's already there, placing the rolls on Alfie's bed and pouring the liquor into two shot glasses. You're grinning about something other than Mara Jaffray (Mara _who?)_ for the first time in nearly two years, and suddenly you're laughing.

Without hesitation, you make your way to your laptop and played the first thing that came onto your mind. Grimes's sugar dust vocals accompanied by the looping synthesizers roamed the corners of your room. She laughs as she inhales her first roll, the eyes rolling back as the effects begin to kick in.

(It never took much to get her high.)

It's your turn to have some as she downs a shot. Right as you finished, she drags you to dance with her. Her hair whip from side to side as she moves. She's screaming right over your favourite part of Genesis but you don't care. You haven't seen her this loose since Year Ten, when she made that vow in her diary to stay away from the party scene until she graduated. From what you've seen, she's only failed a few times. She'd given herself hell these past couple of months: what with trying to ace Business Studies to prove Daddy Millington a point, trying to keep Fabina _and_ Peddie together and trying not to fail miserably with Alfie, she needed a break.

"Let's get some shooooooooooooooooooots," she whispers, nearly tripping over her own toes. You manage to keep her together, lifting her off the ground. She chuckles, kicking her shoes off. Daring herself to another roll, you find yourself praying to whoever is out there that nothing happens tonight.

When she tries to pour shots for the both of you, she ends up pouring some on her dress. "Jeroooooooooooooome," she calls, and you swipe the bottle from her, drinking from its mouth. Giggling, she snatches it from you and does the same. You take turns swigging them until all the contents have either been spilled or burning your livers.

By then, you lack the coordination to even stand up. You're lying on your bed, sweat making your skin sticky. She's got her head on your chest, tracing something with her fingers. Your arm is somehow wrapped around your shoulder almost protectively. Your fingers brush the skin on her shoulders, and you're surprised by how cold she is. Gazing up at you, she grins. You grin right back at her, kissing her forehead.

"Jerome?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"What you said." She pops the first button on your shirt, and she flushes.

Your mind almost explodes. "You mean..."

"... yeah."

You nod. "Yeah, yeah I did."

Some might say that you're simply being heartbroken that your first love might be dating someone else or simply desperate for a glimpse of happiness, but they're all wrong. At that moment, you are simply being honest.

She swallows, and she pops another button. "Can... can I kiss you?"

Again, you nod.

Tilting her head, you don't believe how hard your heart pounds when she captures your lips between hers. You beg to keep your eyes closed, because you're sure you're dreaming. _The best friend and the ex-girlfriend indeed..._

The first kiss seems almost chaste compared to the next one she gives you. Your mouths aren't melding like those poetic novels say but God, it feels like they are. Your hand brushes her shoulder and her back to tangle itself in her golden hair, where you can vaguely make out the skin of her neck. Her arms seem to encircle you and your body is shoved against hers. You should be fighting - any idiot can see that - but you lack the will and you lack the want.

"I'm surprised we haven't done this sooner," you whisper, mentally alarmed that you've said it out loud. She laughs, unbuttoning the rest of your shirt and removing it from your body. Your fingers curl around the zip on the side of her dress, but you lose your balance. Both of you tumble on the floor, and you're on top of her.

She kisses you again, and you finish what you start.

_('Cause I know what you're feeling / It's okay girl, I feel it too.)_

* * *

**_xxii._**

You haven't spoken to him since graduation; you go home to Daddy's London penthouse the next day.

Somehow, you stomach Joy despite the fact that she is now officially dating your ex. You wonder two _ridiculously_ dramatic people - one who loves pranks, and the other a usual victim - end up together, before you remember that you were in that position too once.

If it wasn't Joy, and if they didn't look like they genuinely liked each other, you would've tried your best to break them up.

One August afternoon, you realise that almost everyone is busy, except for you. Their statuses convey their happiness at having a summer to remember: American road trips, European hiking and summer internships. You sigh; the one summer you decided to take it slow happened to be the same one no one else didn't.

As you stare up at the ceiling wondering about nothing, your phone vibrates. The caller ID makes you jump.

_Jerome._

Your thumb hovers over the 'Answer' button, and without consulting your brain it presses the little green thing and you press your phone against your ears.

"Helloooooooooooo?"

"Amber, is this you?"

"Yeah."

"Well then, hello."

"Hello to you too."

"You alright?"

"I - I think so."

"You think?"

"I don't know."

He sighs, and you can hear the disappointment in his voice. From what, you have no idea. "Did you get those Louboutins you said you wanted?"

Your mouth gapes open, wondering how he knows. Wonder how he remembers. _(If I'm so difficult to get, then so are you.)_ "Yeah, I did. Except they weren't in the shade of green I wanted so I had to make do with this awful shade of pink. I asked for yellow and they say they ran out! How can they possibly run out in Paris?"

"Well, green is the new black this season."

"Don't you dare."

Laughing, he adds, "I'm kidding, Ambs."

Wrinkling your nose, you exhale. "Where are you going next month?"

"Um, I'm going to Cardiff. I still can't believe I got in." He's probably shaking his head, fiddling with something. "How about you? Wait, you're going to New York, the city that never sleeps. New York School of Fashion, I heard?"

"Actually, Parsons. Daddy said I had the talent, so... so he enrolled me there instead."

"Is it a good school?"

"Yeah, Anna Sui's from that school, and I've got most of her bags at home."

"You know, for someone who's going to have the time of their life, you don't sound very excited."

"I'm going to have to work, Jerome. I'm also going to have to learn how to use the subway, and eat Subway. How can you eat a train?"

"Subway is a sandwich shop, Amber."

"Ew."

"What's so rubbish about sandwich shops?"

"They're dirt cheap and you have to eat with your hands and you don't even know if they wash the vegetables with clean water. Also, apparently someone found a finger in their sandwich once."

"Then eat at more expensive places?"

"Can't. Daddy expects me to live on Subway and instant noodles because he says I'm going to have to be my own woman. Well, there is no way I'm going to cook. After all, there are few things in this world more precious than a fifty-pound manicure."

"I think what you need to do is learn how to spend your money on groceries, not expensive manicures."

"Ew, don't make me think about that."

"Well, you told me that that's the mindset I'm going to have to avoid."

"You can't just use my Remarkable Quotes against me, Clarke!"

"Too late, I've already done it."

This conversation feels like a scene from _Much Ado About Nothing_ (the only play you've been able to stand, but only because David Tennant was hilarious). You sigh, rolling your eyes as your brown eyes catch sight of a calendar. "Happy birthday, Jerome."

There is a pause on the other line. "Thank you."

"Why the shock?" you ask, puzzled.

"You're the first person to say it to me."

"Oh, Jerome - "

"No one's remembered this year."

Your face lightens, which can be an ugly sight because it's apparently _too_ pale. "I - I'm so sorry."

"It's happened before."

"That sucks. Why didn't you tell me before?"

That struck a chord; why on earth _should_ he tell you? You're not friends, by any means. If anything you've spent more time insulting each other than all your dates with Mick _and_ Alfie combined then multiplied by any given factor of ten. Despite the fact that you'd gladly throw him in front of a bus when prompted, you would also defend him to the moon and back. Other than Mara, you're the only one that knows the contents of his drawers: extra cash and an old prank book he holds to his heart like a Bible and a stash of grass you're surprised Victor hasn't sniffed. He's never stayed in your room longer than ten minutes unless necessary but he knows that your favourite colour is yellow and your poison isn't top of the line Grey Goose but supermarket brand Jack Daniels - not like you'd like anyone else to know - and Mick isn't your first kiss contrary to everyone else's thoughts.

(He's not your friend, and that _kills_ you.)

The same train of thought is running through his head. For two of the most talkative people in Anubis House, you sure as hell aren't doing a lot of talking.

"Never mind," you cut in, "you live near London, don't you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Why don't you come over tonight for a bit and you can teach me how to do cooking? I mean, since you're obviously so good at it."

"What makes you say that?"

"I know things."

"I don't even know where you live. Am I wrong to suggest some upscale SoHo flat with a gatehouse where I'm required to provide sufficient ID?"

"Shut up, and no. I live in a _mansion."_

He comes that night, dressed in the most flimsy outfit possible because it so happened to be raining that night. You make overdone bacon and eggs that night before he attempts to teach you how to bake. You very nearly explode the kitchen, so you exchange songs instead. It's a night you could get used to, but you're _Amber Millington,_ and routines are so not your thing.

* * *

**_xxiii._**

When your dad calls and says that he's got enough money to send you overseas, you're not sure if he just carried out some sort of bank heist or if he's finally held on to a day job long enough. You call mum, who says the same thing. By an uncharacteristic burst of impulse you ship yourself across the pond and into the jungle that is America.

Nina and Eddie pick you up in the airport with gusto and they give you a guided tour of Chicago. You're surprised to see Fabian and Patricia tagging along, making snark comments about American driving as the two natives argued over taking the left or taking the right. You refuse the offer to stay at their place for the night, saying that you need to learn your neighbourhood, which seems to be near theirs by some strange stroke of luck. However, you don't have the heart to refuse their offer to help you settle in.

"How are you?" Nina grins, "now that you're in Chicago, that means that there are six Anubis residents living in America!"

You frown. "Six?"

"Amber's in the country too, remember?" Fabian adds, and you slowly nod.

The last time the either of you had contact with each other was that night on your eighteenth birthday. After that, you never really spoke to each other and you didn't use Facebook or Instagram often enough to remember to find her. No one's really posted with her or about her; you just assume she's busy with fashion school. You're too busy trying to get enough credit to get the word _Honours_ printed along with your degree.

You can feel your cheeks suddenly going scarlet and everyone else looking befuddled at you. "I forgot," you reply stupidly, "which part of America is she in again?"

"New York, but ever since she graduated last year she's been all over the place. She really wanted to see you, but she's in Paris now," Nina sighs. Her phone rings as if on cue, and she picks it up. "Amber! Hey! Jerome's with us! We're in his apartment now, actually." She nods as she hears whatever her friend is saying. "Oh. Yeah. Sure." Setting the phone down on the floor, you can hear Amber's crystal voice.

"Hey guys!" she greets, "Paris is amazing, and so are the clothes. Oh, did you know that this guy from the House of Dior wanted to ask me out but I was like, 'No, I have a boyfriend.' But then he goes all stalkerish and tries to ask my fellow stylist for my number. Katie doesn't remember giving it to her, but then he gets my number anyway. How creepy is - "

"He - _llo,_ Amber," you pipe in, grin wide. She squeals, and you're lucky the phone isn't against your ears. Or anyone else's for that matter. "Is there a reason as to why you're screaming like a banshee in my ear?"

"THEY NEARLY DYED ELLA'S HAIR BLUE! _BLUE!"_ There is a rumble of voice in the background, but a moment pases before you hear her on the line again. "I'm sorry. Fashion emergency aborted. And I get to scream like a banshee because I, Mister, have not heard or seen a peep of you for the past God knows how long."

"Not entirely my fault."

"That means it's not entirely mine, either."

It's only when you scan the room after a lingering thought you realise that everyone's left and you're the only one there, using a phone that isn't yours.

"Amber?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to have to call you back."

* * *

**_xxiv._**

Tonight's centrepiece is no other than Alfie and Joy Lewis. You half-expect them to get married in an upscale hotel with a creepy alien hostile theme. You would be forced to be clad in black or green, depending on whether you were alien or human and swear your allegiance against some oath to the powers above.

Instead, you're in front of Anubis House during a very hot August afternoon, gazing at Joy's curled rosewood hair and the way it matches the details you carved in the fabric of her dress. She grins at you, thanking you for doing this for her and that she _really_ should pay you, and you laugh and shake your head. Being bridesmaid to the first Anubis wedding is payment enough.

The fact that this is almost a typical wedding is almost atypical of the two people getting married.

It's a private affair: there's the ten of you who used to live here, Mara's colleague and Mick's boyfriend, and a scatter of the newlyweds' colleagues. It is Jerome who has to marry them off if only in spirit because they've been legally married for three days, and Patricia produces the rings as per. Nina catches the bouquet - which is just as well, considering she's already engaged - and you have some of Trudy's food.

Dancing ensues and you can't help but gravitate towards Jerome, and it seems that this force is mutual. You're the first person he grabs into his arms as Alfie whispers sentiments into his wife's ears. You fall into a routine you're both familiar with: you dance, execute a bevy of dance moves, and pretend to enjoy yourselves.

(Except you're not sure if you're pretending at this stage.)

"Who would've thought that those two would be able to stage a normal wedding?" Jerome remarks.

"Not me," you sigh, "but maybe it's because they've grown up."

"Maybe."

You feel this odd feeling at the bottom of your stomach, pangs of something you don't remember having. You know the emotions running through his mind as his footwork matches yours, and you feel dizzy at the pace you're setting for everyone else. With everyone at Anubis House, you subconsciously draw a semantic field for them throughout the ages. Patricia is always associated with pouring, snark, and Joy. Nina is always sweet, calm, and shy. It's a way to remember them.

But now you don't see or talk to them as much as you used to, and this safety net is beginning to crumble.

Your feet fizzle to a stop, and so does his. He doesn't look at you like a kicked puppy or persuades you to voice your concern. He simply pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. Resting your head on his shoulder, you hum to the song that's playing.

_Oh river, won't you take me..._

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

"I - nothing. It's a ridiculous idea."

"No, it's not."

"How do you know?"

"A good friend of mine once said that ideas aren't ridiculous; it would be more ridiculous to have no ideas rather than a thousand half-baked ones."

"Wise friend."

"I concur."

He laughs. "Look at you, using fancy words like concur. I guess we really are growing up after all."

"Don't deflect me. What's this idea of yours?"

"I... no, really. It's ridiculous."

"Go on."

"I want you to go on a date with me. Just for fun, and so Alfie can get off my case about having literally no girlfriends since uni."

"I hardly believe you, Jerome."

"Don't stall. So do you or do you not want to go on a date with me?"

(You're kind of, sort of, over the moon because that childhood crush on him never really went away, but you don't want him to know that.)

"I'll think about it."

* * *

_**xxv.**_

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'll go on a date with you."

* * *

**_xxvi._**

One date turns into two, and two dates turn into four, and four dates turn into Saturday nights watching sixties movies at his place and Wednesday nights sipping wine at yours.

You're both living the sort of life you've imagined as children. He's stuck to a steady day job as some sort of campaign manager for a possible candidate for mayor, and you're finally making it as your own as you open your first Millington's outlet in downtown London. Your spring/summer campaign is a success and you're already planning your pieces for the fall/winter season.

During one date, he insists on cooking and you're busy sketching away. You toss your sketchbook across the room, your palm acting as a pivot for your forehead. As you slump onto the table, Jerome slides a plateful of fettuccine on the table and faces you.

"What's wrong?" he queries, brushing the hair out of your face.

As much as you want to tell him, you don't want to burden him. You feel like being difficult and childish and throwing a few things across his apartment sounds like a good thing to do, but he worked so hard on it so you just give him the silent treatment. You hear something catch in his throat as he leaves you to your wallowing.

_Don't get that sinking feeling, don't fall apart._

The clatter of forks and spoons snaps you out of it. He doesn't hesitate to get started on his meal, knowing you enough to leave you be should your thoughts overtake you.

(He still pushes the food towards you, because he cares.)

You're not one to give in, but you love his cooking and it smells like the Mediterranean which you love so much, so you take a bite. As you dig in, you suddenly feel something click into place at the back of your mind, and your heart sinks into your stomach and you feel like there's water in your lungs. It has nothing to do with the fashion sketches or the ever-approaching deadlines.

This feels _so_ much worse than stress.

You remember the clicking when you kiss Alfie the first time you kissed him to make Mick jealous. You remember the heart sinking when some guy in fashion school rejects you, but only because you've never been turned down and that was a first. But you don't remember your breath hitching and your face turning a bright shade of scarlet and the fact that you can't squeeze anything out of your mouth.

Dashing from your seat, you pant and slam right into the door. Fumbling with the lock you scream, cursing and finding yourself gasping your air. When you finally leave the house you go as fast as your feet carry you, ignoring the frantic Jerome chasing after you and asking if you're okay and wondering if he should send you to the hospital.

Before he can catch up with you, you run towards your apartment which you're thankful isn't too far from his. You lock yourself in and you can hear his fist thumping against your front door. "Amber!" he yells. "What's wrong with you? Are you okay?"

For the next several days, you ignore his calls and the flowers at work and the hand-delivered proposals to have dinner and try to start over, but you can't because every time you see his name you're crying and tears stream down your face and ruin your mascara and you feel like you've fucked yourself over and over and over again. Eventually he stops and you know it's not because he wants to, but because you don't want him in your life.

(That's a _lie_, because you _love_ him and you can't seem to handle it.)

* * *

**_xxvii._**

Fabian and Nina give the former residents Anubis House to a backstage pass of their new home and their new baby in tow. You're not surprised when you see that it's a rather large house with an ever larger garden and it's prim and perfect for the new Rutter family.

Most people are sipping champagne with the exception of the very pregnant Joy Lewis, her husband grasping her hand at all times. Patricia and Eddie are trying to keep their two-year-old in tow, and you're glad that Miller Junior has inherited his mother's snark as he observes how single you are. (If he wasn't a child, you would not be so amused.)

Nina and Amber are huddled under a parasol, the latter sighing as she holds Grace Rutter in her arms. You can see the back of her starfish hands as she giggles at her godmother, and she chuckles back in glee. A smile haunts your lips when you realise that she's a natural, and when she finds you across the yard you try and choke back the thought. You're surprised she's even acknowledged you at all, considering she's never spoken to you for the better part of these two months.

She approaches you, Grace back in Nina's hands, and she still has that poise that you miss so much and the wide-eyed curiosity you spotted in her as a child. You're not shocked that she isn't smiling, her forehead creasing and her lips forming a thin line. She picks up two glasses of champagne and offers you one. Glasses clinking, you try and observe her through the transparent medium.

"Cheers," she says, lacking the ceremonious tinge it usually would. You both take a sip.

"I know that I offer you an explanation for what I did to you," she adds, "and it warrants one hell of an apology - don't worry, you'll get it - and you're going to say that relationships don't quite work like this but it doesn't do much harm to try, right?"

"Now why would I say that?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

"I'm going to ask you to go on a date with me, Jerome," she sighs, her tone almost dismissive. "I'm so sorry about what happened last time, but it's because I love you and I can't fucking deal with that."

You slam your glass onto the table. "I love you too," you say through grit teeth, "so can you deal with that?"

"I'm sorry that the other two people I ever fell in love with didn't seem to reciprocate my feelings!" she snaps, trying not to gain everyone else's attention. "One of them is now married to Joy - okay, I ship Joyfie with all my heart but still - and the other one didn't seem to have women in their mind."

"And you think I did any better?" you snarl, the poison in your words ripping your heart to shreds. "One of them broke up with me because, because we were incompatible, and I'm not sure if I was in love with her in the first place."

She's not crying, but she's close to. You draw a sigh and you nod, drinking the rest of your glass before asking for another. She turns to look at you before she picks up her glass and drains the bubbly drink to its lees.

* * *

_**xxviii.**_

You're friends with Jerome again, and it's not as easy as it used to be.

The conversations don't pop out of nowhere and you're no longer discussing about whether the stars you're seeing are dead or if life is worth living. You talk about your day and how shitty the economy is despite the fact that you're both doing fine. You moan about the fact that your coworkers are dissing you about being single and there's not enough money in the world to get all the vodka you want.

Still, you're talking and you find your hands drifting together too often and the desire to rip his shirt off of him too strong. Sometimes you even cave, but you both vow that it's a one time thing and it never happens again.

(It always does.)

You give yourself a three-day leave from work when you fly home from Rome to open another Millington's branch only to find your dining room turned into a dance floor. There's food on the table, and there is a bottle of Merlot idly sitting between the dishes. Snorting, you're skeptical.

"Funny, Nina," you call, "I did not give you the keys to my apartment just so you can turn it into your loveshack for one night."

A head of blond hair appears itself from behind the cough, and your skepticism fades as it reveals a tall blond you haven't seen in your place for a while. You can't say you're disappointed, and you're not surprised that he put a lot of effort into this - his secondary school exploits proved as much. A wide grin sprawls across your face, and you tackle him to the ground with a hug.

"Yes, yes!" you squeal, "this is wonderful, Jerome! How do you know the Millington cure for jet lag is a decent dinner with wine?"

"Because it always works," he says, dragging you to the dance floor. You envelop yourself in each other's limbs, memorize your scents, remembering how it feels like you're becoming one entity. Closing your eyes, you rest your head on his shoulders.

"I - There's something I want to ask you."

You freeze.

"It's too soon, and we're not even official so I'm not sure why I'm asking this of you, but... remember when I said I love you in Nina and Fabian's house? I feel it, and maybe I've been feeling it for ages because all I can see in my future it's... it's us being us. I know we're complicated and you're wondering why I'd want to spend the rest of my life with you since there's seven billion people on earth, but it's because you stuck. You stuck with me through a lot, consciously or otherwise. I can say that I have stuck with you too.

"When college ended and I didn't hear you all throughout uni and everyone's just asking _why, why, why,_ I was a bit of a wreck. You used Chum Chatter the way other people did their homework so the fact that I didn't hear from you's just... it's not right. I couldn't live a second of my life not knowing if you're okay or if you're dead and that's when it hit me. I care about you. When you said yes to my date I knew the feeling is mutual. We suck at showing each other we care, but that's always been us, hasn't it?

"I love you, Amber, and I want to know if you'll do me the honour of being my wife."

Flashbacks run through your head of your parents' arguments and the sobbing you hear at night when you were little. You'd curl up in your mother's bed and tell her that it was going to be okay, except it wasn't and she was gone by the time you knew a thing of what's going on. That's when Daddy decided to ship you off to boarding school; he couldn't look at you anymore, not when you were a constant reminder of his biggest mistake.

At the same time, you're staring at the one person who gave you the most grief. He got you into trouble and made you get into fights and he is partly responsible for your violent streak. But he made you determined to stop him annoying you, broke you out of your shell, twisted and turned you so that you came out the individual you are today.

To say that you didn't love him would be bullshit, but you couldn't risk yourself turning into your father.

"I..." you stutter, "I... no, Jerome... I... I can't." Before he sheds a tear, you place a chaste kiss on his lips. "We need some time to define ourselves. I need to know where I stand with you other than the person you love. I just... I need time."

He doesn't continue the conversation, instead kissing you back hard. Wrapping his arms around your waist, you wrap yours around his chest. He doesn't have the energy to carry you all the way to the bedroom, so he swoops you up and lands you on the couch, sliding on top of you until his weight pressed onto your body.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

_**epilogue.**_

(You'll always come dancing back to each other in the end.)

* * *

**A/N: **Review? (:


End file.
